


Behind the Campstool

by dptullos



Category: Vorkosigan Saga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dptullos/pseuds/dptullos
Comments: 16
Kudos: 15





	Behind the Campstool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anstaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anstaar/gifts).



Stepan Grishnov was a suspicious man. 

He had always been something of a skeptic, and that tendency had only grown since he began working for the Ministry of Political Education. So when the Emperor had begun to give in to the War Party, he had to ask himself: Why?

There were sound political reasons, of course. The War Party was powerful among the General Staff, the Counts, and the Ministries, and even Ezar Vorbarra could not risk offending them carelessly. But the planned Escobar campaign was simply foolish. Even if they won- and Grishnov believed they could win- their space forces would be far from home, trying to control Escobar while Beta Colony mobilized against them. The rest of the Hegen Hub would be terrified, possibly to the point of accepting Cetagandan “assistance” against Barrayar. 

Hilaire Quintillan had sent him a very confidential hundred-page report detailing all of the problems involved in a successful campaign against Escobar. The report on the possible consequences of an _unsuccessful_ invasion took up four hundred pages, and included the possible fall of the Vorbarra dynasty. Stepan knew for a fact that the Emperor had received both reports. 

Yet he had not acted to slow the rush to war. If anything, he encouraged it, allowing the War Party to proceed with their absurdly optimistic plans. Stepan had watched the Emperor planning the Conquest of Komarr, methodically working through every worst-case scenario, and the contrast could not have been more obvious. The Emperor was no military genius, not like Kanzian or  Vorkosigan , but in Grishnov’s experience he had always been careful to look before he leaped. 

Some of his allies thought that Emperor Ezar had grown old and weary, and was willing to let them have their way. Stepan prided himself on his ability to control his reactions, but he had still struggled to conceal his scorn. So while Prince Serg played with his toy ships and Admiral Vorrutyer plotted against Vorkosigan, he went looking for answers.

“Your Imperial Majesty, fellow Counts, Ministers of the Imperium, I come to you with grave news.” Count Vorbakker spoke calmly, indifferent to the hostile stares of the War Party. He had opposed the war from the start, showing both exceptional courage and a total lack of political sense. “I have recently received information that the Betans have developed a new weapon, a “plasma mirror” that reflects fire back upon the attacker.” A ripple of surprise passed through the chamber. “I have proof that this “mirror” could destroy our fleet, and I ask the Emperor’s permission to submit this evidence to the Joint Session.”

Emperor Ezar turned cold eyes upon the Count. He could denounce Vorbakker, he could arrange an “accident” for him, but it was too late to silence him. Stepan had planned too well for that. Prince Serg glowered down at Count Vorbakker, enraged at the man who was helping to save his life, and Stepan quietly cursed the circumstances that had forced his allies upon him. This  _ child  _ would be Emperor one day, ruling all of Barrayar.

The Emperor rose to his feet, opened his mouth, and staggered. A faint gasp escaped his lips, and he cast one last glance towards the Prince, who stared down in shock. Then he fell, and the chamber descended into chaos. 

Much, much later, when the oaths had been given and Serg was properly secure, Stepan stood over the Emperor’s body as it lay in state, awaiting the funeral. Ezar Vorbarra had betrayed him. He had plotted to send his son to his death and lay the blame on Stepan. He had created Stepan, raising him up from a common soldier to stand among the great. Ezar had been his master and his teacher, and all that he was, he owed to him. 

He left without looking behind him. 

“I want him dead tonight, Grishnov!,” Serg snapped. “ _ Tonight _ !”

It was difficult for him to think of Prince Serg as the Emperor. Ezar Vorbarra had given orders with the certainty that he would be obeyed; his son yelped like a puppy. Ges Vorrutyer stood silently at his shoulder, brown eyes fixed on Grishnov. He was not a fool, at least. He understood why it would be inconvenient for Aral Vorkosigan to die immediately after Serg claimed the campstool. 

“Soon, sire,” Vorrutyer said, his voice smooth and pleasant. “First, though, we must remove the traitors who support him. We must secure your reign before we can deal with the Vorkosigans.” 

Serg said, “The Service is oathsworn to  _ me _ .” It was a weak protest, without any real force behind it. “They must obey me!” The Service had been oathsworn to Yuri, and he was a decorated veteran, a man who commanded respect and fear. If the Service’s officers had to choose between the Vorkosigans and Prince Serg, Stepan could understand why they would choose the Vorkosigans. 

Ges placed a gentle hand on Serg’s shoulder. “They will,” he promised. “Once we root out the traitors, the loyal men will follow you to glory.” Serg frowned angrily at Stepan, as if he blamed him for not having already killed every traitor, and he bowed low in apology, humble before the man who called himself Emperor.

In the end, Serg signed all of the decrees. When he was done, he stalked off to wander the halls of the Residence, and Stepan irritably wondered what kind of crimes he would have to cover up now that Serg was on the campstool. At least Vorrutyer was  _ discreet _ ; Serg seemed entirely unconcerned with hiding his true nature. The Emperor had always weighed the consequences before he acted, but his son never seemed to imagine that consequences were something that might happen to him. In truth, the only surprise was that the Emperor had not decided to dispose of his unworthy heir long ago. 

Lifting the old-fashioned paper to the light, Stepan glanced at the words above the Imperial signature and smiled.  _ Full authority _ , the papers proclaimed. Full authority, by the Emperor’s Word. 

The first shuttles arrived in the hour just before dawn, disgorging a host of soldiers into the streets of Vorbarra Sultana. Stepan watched them take position from the Residence window, drawing back the curtain to glance outside. Even a peaceful transition of power could be dangerous, and it was only reasonable to take precautions. 

The men sitting around the table were all in the formal red and blue dress uniforms of the Imperial Service. They had been Ezar’s men, like Stepan, lifted up from the ranks by the Emperor’s Word. Unlike the Vor, they owed all that they were to the Emperor. 

But the Emperor was dead, and none of these men were meeting with his son. Serg was busy abusing the servants and imagining increasingly horrible ways for Aral Vorkosigan to die, so Stepan would perform this small service for him. The officers watched him expressionlessly, waiting for his orders. 

The political officers were not popular with the military. They were not supposed to be. Stepan knew the men here did not love him, but he could see something shift in their eyes as he placed their new rank tabs on the table. “The Emperor,” he said precisely, “directs you to take up your commands at once. He relies upon your loyalty and instant obedience in this time, and trusts that your first and only loyalty shall be to him.”

Ezar had given rewards with his own hands, making it clear that they owed those rewards to him alone. Serg had delegated that task to Stepan, and he was the one who had chosen these men. He could see that knowledge on their faces as they pinned the tabs to their collars, preparing to take the places that had belonged to Vor with dangerous family connections and older officers who had served under Piotr Vorkosigan during the Invasion.

Once they were gone, Stepan sat alone in the darkened room and considered the next step. He had been preparing for this moment for years, and it was hard to believe that it had finally arrived. 

There were no cameras within the Council of Counts, but he would never need help to remember the look on Vorkosgian’s face when Count Serg Vorbarra accused him of murder. Piotr Vorkosigan had risen to his feet, hands clenched at his sides, and Stepan was suddenly very grateful that he had already begun to remove the old man’s supporters within the Service.

The Emperor had ordered them to conceal the crime, but Stepan had never disposed of the evidence. Even the Council of Counts, which clearly wished to acquit the Great General's son, could not deny the proof of Aral Vorkosigan’s guilt. And when he was asked to swear on his name’s word that he was innocent, Aral Vorkosigan confessed. 

The vote that followed was unanimous, though Count Vorkosigan did abstain. 

Stepan was a busy man, but he made time to attend the beheading. Aral Vorkosigan died bravely, apologizing one last time to the families of his victims before he laid his head upon the block. Afterwards, as Vorkosigan armsmen took his body away, he made a quiet note to ensure that a recording went to Colonel Markov’s family. Stepan had promised, long ago, that Vorkosigan would pay for killing his man, and it was not only the Vor who could take pride in keeping their word. 

Weeks slipped into months, and one night Stepan stayed up listening to the thunder of artillery. It made him remember his time as a soldier, fighting for Emperor Ezar, earning promotion and honor on the battlefield. It was an oddly wistful memory, and he did not feel the triumph he had expected when his men threw Negri’s corpse in front of him. He knelt down and carefully closed the Captain’s eyes. “Bury him next to Emperor Ezar,” Stepan ordered, and they rushed to obey.

Negri had been loyal to his Emperor. Stepan had been loyal to his Emperor, too, before he realized that Ezar Vorbarra would simply throw him away without a moment’s hesitation. Emperor Ezar had been a man who could inspire loyalty. A flawed man, but a man of strength and vision, a leader worthy of Barrayar. 

Serg Vorbarra was not worthy. He was weak, and he knew it. He lashed out to hide his weakness, to destroy those who dared to be better than him in some way. Stepan did not think Serg truly saw him as a person. He was only a tool, a useful servant who bowed and obeyed and destroyed anyone who might threaten Serg Vorbarra. Serg would not view a prole as a threat, even with Ministry guards inside the Residence and Stepan’s picked men commanding the capital’s garrison. 

“Kill them all,” Serg was saying. “Every Count who dares to mutter behind my back. Put them in the Square, and let them die slowly. Send their families to join them.” 

Vorrutyer’s face flickered with concern. He was not lost to political reality. Without his help, Stepan would have lost control of Serg long ago; Vorrutyer seemed to be the only one he truly trusted, the one man who could reach through his paranoia and convince him to be patient. 

It could not last. Today, Serg wanted to kill twenty-three Counts; a week ago, he had wanted to invade Escobar to prove that he was a better commander than his dead father. It was tempting to compare Serg to Yuri, but the truth was that Yuri had been a strong Emperor before he fell to madness. Serg had never been anything but a vicious, spoiled child. 

“I beg for a little more time, sire,” Stepan said. He knelt before Serg as he had knelt before the Emperor, and felt an overwhelming sense of disgust when Serg nodded magnanimously. “As soon as the Service is cleansed of traitors, we shall begin with the Counts.”

Two months later, Stepan stood above a body lying in state. Soltoxin did not kill quickly or kindly, and Serg’s face was twisted in pain. “Treason,” Stepan said, hearing his voice echo in the room. “We will find the murderers, Princess. Your Imperial Majesty.” 

Gregor Vorbarra did not have tears for his father. He looked up at Stepan solemnly, with carefully hidden fear, and Stepan smiled down at him. The boy would make a wonderful Emperor. At his side, Kareen Vorbarra’s face was a polite mask, the perfect image of a Barrayaran princess. 

“Regent,” she said gracefully. “Thank you for your service in these difficult times. Though I grieve the loss of my dear Serg, I know that you will help to teach and guide my son to adulthood. He will be a good Emperor.” 

Stepan said, “You are too kind to your humble servant, Princess.” She heard the dismissal in his words and turned away, taking her son by the hand. Vorbarra armsmen and his own Ministry guards fell into step around them, keeping them safe from the assassins who had murdered Prince Serg.

Soon enough, he would need to return to work. Prime Minister Quintillan managed most of the details, but there were some things that required Stepan’s personal attention. For now, though, he could take a brief moment for himself. 

The wind howled around Stepan as he walked towards the Emperor’s tomb, a phalanx of Ministry guards around him. It was a bitter night, but he barely felt the cold as he knelt before his master’s tomb. Stepan was Regent now, speaking with the Voice of the Emperor, and Ezar’s grandson would never be more than a pawn. But Ezar was, in some undefinable way, still his master, and all that Stepan was, he owed to him. 

“Ezar,” he whispered. “You were the best of teachers. Thank you.” 


End file.
